


Fill Up Your Mouth with Something Sweet

by Linsky



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Boys with disaster EQs, Getting Together, Jonny doesn't know how to ask for nice things, M/M, Patrick has wily ways, Praise Kink, rookie season
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:21:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26532034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linsky/pseuds/Linsky
Summary: The amazing thing, Jonny reflects after a couple of months with the Blackhawks, is how Patrick Kane manages to be such a good hockey player and yet so wrong about everything.
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews
Comments: 26
Kudos: 390





	Fill Up Your Mouth with Something Sweet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dixieland33](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dixieland33/gifts).



> I should have known I couldn't avoid the rookie season for long. I'm addicted, you guys. XD Hope you enjoy!
> 
> (It's a [tumblr](https://linskywords.tumblr.com))

The amazing thing, Jonny reflects after a couple of months with the Blackhawks, is how Patrick Kane manages to be such a good hockey player and yet so wrong about everything.

“You should have passed to me back there,” Jonny says halfway through their game against the Blue Jackets

Patrick whirls to face him, which is pretty ridiculous considering he’s swinging a leg over the boards at the time. “Are you kidding?” he says. “I had a shot opportunity.”

“Which you missed,” Jonny hisses. They’d been _this close_ to a good scoring chance, and Patrick…

“Which I _took._ What, are you the only one allowed to shoot?”

“I had a better chance,” Jonny says. “You _know_ Leclaire’s weaker five-hole than blocker-side—”

“The point of the game is shooting, Jonathan,” Patrick snaps. “Which is probably why I have more points than you do so far.”

This is why Jonny keeps ending up in these fights. He’ll start out making a completely reasonable point, and Patrick will escalate it for no reason. “Maybe I’d have more points if you would fucking _pass to me._ ”

“Get your own passes, you fucking piece of—”

“Boys, boys,” Sharpy says, looking down the line at them. “You need to take this outside?”

Jonny bites down on the response he’d been planning to make. “I was just offering a suggestion,” he mutters.

“Like hell you were,” Patrick says, but he subsides at a look from Sharpy.

“Good, glad there’s no problem,” Sharpy says pleasantly. “Maybe we can all watch this game that’s happening?”

Jonny turns back to watch the ice, fuming. He really _was_ only offering a suggestion. It’s not his problem if Patrick can’t see good sense when it’s waiting unguarded in the offensive zone.

***

They lose the game and fly to Nashville to play again the next day. It’s the start of the circus trip, which, Jonny has recently learned, means they’ll be on the road for eleven days straight while the circus sets up camp in the UC. Jonny doesn’t usually mind being on the road—it’s not like he has a super established home back in Chicago—but if this is how things are gonna go with Patrick, eleven days in a room with him is going to feel like a long time.

The game against Nashville starts out badly, the Preds getting a one-goal lead in the first. Jonny manages to turn it around with a power play goal at the start of the second, though, and the whole rest of the period belongs to the Hawks: two more goals before the buzzer sounds.

Their lead doesn’t last. They play like shit in the third, and the Preds repay them with three goals of their own. The last four minutes of the game, and the Hawks are looking at a one-goal deficit.

They can come back from this. Jonny _knows_ they can. If only people would stop fucking up things he knows they can do better.

“What even _was_ that?” he hisses to Patrick during a stoppage of play.

Patrick’s pads are up around his ears. “I was going as fast as I could.”

“You’ve gotta watch for hits like that,” Jonny says.

Patrick shoots him a glare. “Like you watched for that hit from Hamhuis?”

“I could take it. We need you aiming for the net.”

The look Patrick gives him—Jonny can’t believe people give him grief about his own angry eyes when Patrick can look like that. “I’m doing the best I fucking can. Why don’t you do more if you’re so worried about it?”

The whistle blows, and they break apart, go to their positions for the face-off circle. Jonny wins it, powered by rage. He doesn’t get why Patrick can’t just fucking _listen._

They get a power play in the last two minutes. The first minute of the power play ticks by with nothing, and Jonny should leave the ice, but he needs to make something happen. He can’t leave them like this. He passes to Patrick, a shot in the dark, and somehow Patrick is there, powering up the ice and evading the defenders like only he can. He passes to Willy, and Willy shoots, and—

Jonny’s never been so happy to hear the goal horn. “See, I knew you could fucking do it,” he says, arms wrapped around Patrick.

“Fucking bite me,” Patrick says, pushing him away.

Jonny frowns, skating after him toward the bench. What’s he so mad about? But it doesn’t matter, anyway—they’ve tied it up.

The Preds score in the first nineteen seconds of overtime. All that, and only one point.

It’s a subdued team that changes and showers and boards the bus for the hotel. Jonny’s not paying a lot of attention to his surroundings; he’s thinking about the beginning of the third period, what he could have done to prevent those goals. That’s why he doesn’t notice right away that it’s Patrick who slides into the seat next to him.

“Hey,” Patrick says in that deep voice of his, and Jonny stiffens up automatically. He’s not sure what he’s expecting—more of their fight from earlier, maybe—but he’s definitely not expecting what Patrick says next. “That was a really nice pass at the end of the third.”

Jonny looks at him suspiciously. It doesn’t seem like it’s sarcastic. But he can’t figure out why else Patrick would sit down next to him and say that. “Uh. Thanks?”

“You’re good at that,” Patrick says. “Passing to where you know I’m gonna be.”

“Well.” Jonny feels off-balance. Where is this going? “It’s not that hard, eh? You’re pretty fast, I can usually count on you to catch them.”

Patrick smiles brightly, genuinely, his dimples popping. “Thanks, man.”

That—seems to be it. Jonny turns to look out the window, still bewildered.

He wants to ask Patrick more about it on the bus ride to the hotel, and again when it’s the two of them in their room. But he’s not sure what he wants to ask, and eventually he realizes it boils down to: _Did you mean it when you said I was good at passing?_ And that just feels pathetic. He stays silent instead.

***

They play the Red Wings two days later. Bourquie opens the scoring, but Brian Rafalski ties it up and they don’t manage to score again in the first. Jonny’s shaking with the frustration of missed opportunities as they file into the locker room for the break.

“You have to watch where you’re going,” Jonny says to Patrick out of the corner of his mouth as they settle in for Savvy’s talk.

“I fucking did,” Patrick says. “I fucked up, okay?”

“You can’t just skate ahead without knowing the puck position. I would have had that one if you—”

Patrick rolls his eyes. “Oh, you fucking would _not._ ”

“I was wide open.”

“Kronwall was on your left!”

“I would have made it.” Jonny can feel it: the speed under his skates, the puck perfectly balanced on his stick.

“You are so full of—” Patrick cuts himself off, closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. “No, you know what? You’re right. You probably would have.”

Jonny raises an eyebrow, waits for him to drop the other shoe.

“You were skating really well out there,” Patrick says. “You had a real chance. If I hadn’t been offsides, you might have made it.”

Jonny studies him, trying to figure out his angle. He can’t figure it out, and he still hasn’t by the time Savvy shouts for their attention. Why would Patrick just—say that?

They win the game, almost entirely because Sharpy goes on an absolute tear in the third period and gets a single-period hat trick. They go out to celebrate, obviously, hitting a random Detroit bar and buying Sharpy shots until he starts shaking his head, grin wide.

Patrick slides into the booth next to Jonny after Steeger gets up. “I meant it before,” he says, before Jonny can say anything. “You really did look good out there tonight.”

Jonny blinks at him. He’d been about to ask whether Patrick had had any luck getting the older guys to slip him a beer. “Uh, thanks,” he says. “Still didn’t score.”

“Well, maybe if I hadn’t been offsides.”

“No, come on,” Jonny says. “That happens to everyone. You’re no worse than the rest of the team.”

Patrick shoots him a sideways grin. “Gee, thanks.”

“No, I mean—” Jonny struggles to find words, flustered. “I was just frustrated tonight. You actually have really good ice awareness. Better than most people.”

“Yeah?” Patrick gives him a surprised smile. “Thanks. So do you, you know. It’s one of the best things about your game.”

Jonny has no idea what’s going on in this conversation. It’s too warm in this bar, anyway; he doesn’t know why the guys wanted to come here. He drinks some more of his soda and hopes Patrick won’t notice the way his cheeks have gone flushed.

***

Calgary is up next. The Hawks win 2-1; Jonny doesn’t make the score sheet, but that doesn’t matter. It’s about the team, not his individual performance.

He and Patrick don’t get into any fights on the bench that day. Patrick doesn’t even sit near him. That bugs Jonny a little, even though maybe he should be relieved, the way they’ve been clashing lately.

Patrick does follow him up to their room when they get to the hotel. Jonny wonders if he’s gonna leave right away like he sometimes does, maybe go hang out with Sharpy and Burs, but Patrick stays, fiddles with his phone for a while. Then, when Jonny’s settled on his own bed, Patrick says, “That was a great shot you had today.”

It’s completely out of the blue. Jonny almost wants to look behind him to see if there’s someone else Patrick’s having a conversation with. But Patrick’s looking directly at him.

He opens his mouth to say thanks, to brush it off. Instead he says, “Yeah?”

“Can’t believe Kiprusoff caught it. You were robbed, man.”

Jonny shifts uncomfortably on the bed. “If I had been a little faster—”

Patrick shakes his head. “Uh-uh, can’t play that game. There’s always shit that could have gone down differently. Just take the compliment. You deserve it.”

Jonny can’t come up with anything to say to that. He buries himself in his phone, pretending he’s responding to texts.

Patrick takes an extra shower that night like he usually does, and Jonny uses the time to jerk off. Sometimes it’s a struggle, getting himself all the way there before Patrick wraps things up in the bathroom. But tonight, when he’s a few minutes in, he thinks about Patrick’s voice saying _take the compliment; you deserve it,_ and it’s over really fast after that.

***

The compliments keep coming. The team’s having a tough run of games, struggling to get even one point per night, and usually this is when he and Patrick would be fighting like cats and dogs. Instead, Patrick keeps saying good things about Jonny’s play.

It’s not even his best play. That’s the crazy thing. Patrick isn’t saying “good goal” or “thanks for the assist.” He’s singling out less obvious things: Jonny keeping the other team from a scoring chance, Jonny doing a good job stick-handling, Jonny acting fast to avoid icing the puck.

It’s weird. Kind of embarrassing, honestly. Every time Patrick says something like that, Jonny gets flustered and can’t come up with anything coherent to say back. Sometimes he manages to compliment Patrick in return, and Patrick always seems happy to hear it, but it doesn’t seem like that’s why he’s doing it. He’s just—complimenting Jonny.

Jonny doesn’t know why it’s happening. He kind of wants it to stop, just so it won’t be confusing anymore. But he finds himself looking forward to it, sidling up to Patrick after games and waiting to hear what he has to say.

The last game of the circus trip is a shitshow against the Canucks. The whistle barely stops blowing the whole time. Burs and JV each get fighting majors, and Chicago can’t get anything past Luongo to save their lives.

The mood in the room afterward is grim. Jonny feels like shit, like he always does after a loss. Especially after a shutout: they make him feel so—powerless. Like nothing they did mattered at all.

He wants to go back out there, redo some of those scoring chances. He wants the open ice in front of him and Luongo looking in the other direction. He wants—he wants Patrick to say something nice to him.

That’s dumb. Jonny doesn’t need that. And Patrick doesn’t seem like he’s jumping at the chance, anyway. Jonny trails after him on the way back to the hotel, waiting for it, but Patrick is quiet, lost in a funk of his own.

That’s legit. Patrick had three shots that didn’t go in and a handful of giveaways that could have turned into something good if they’d gone the other way. He’s probably busy beating himself up.

Jonny makes a couple of bids for his attention on the bus, but Patrick brushes him off. He’s hoping for more when they get to their hotel room—but still, Patrick’s closed off, going to his own bed and burying himself in his phone.

Jonny sits on the edge of the bed, his knee bouncing a little. “Man, that game really sucked,” he says.

“Mm-hm,” Patrick says.

“I wish this team would fucking get it together,” Jonny says.

Patrick doesn’t even look up.

“Like—that fucking breakaway chance, the one you had in the second—”

“Jonny.” Patrick looks up at him. His voice is tired. “I don’t want to fucking do this right now, okay?”

“I’m not trying to do anything,” Jonny says. “I’m just saying, we should be on the lookout for chances like—”

“Seriously,” Patrick says. “Not right now.”

Jonny can pick up on signals, okay. He knows he should probably leave. Get up, take a walk around the hotel, go see if Duncs and Seabs are up for hanging out, anything. But he can’t handle the idea of letting Patrick stay closed off to him like this. “You need to learn to use your edges better,” he says desperately.

Patric’s head snaps up. “Excuse me?”

That’s more like it. “If you had turned faster when the Sedins came after you in the third—”

“My edges are fine, there was no way out of that and you fucking know it,” Patrick says. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“What? I’m just saying—”

“Do you just want to fight right now? Oh my God,” Patrick says, sitting up and swinging his legs around to sit on the edge of the bed. “Is that why you do it? Do you just like fighting with me?”

“No,” Jonny says. He feels strange, his heart going a little too fast. “That’s not it.”

“So what do you want? Do you want to hear me say I suck?”

“What? Of course not,” Jonny says. “You don’t suck. I just—”

“So you just want to make me second-guess myself, is that it? Or maybe you’re so much of a dick you can’t help it. Oh my God,” Patrick says, getting up and going for his shoes. “I can’t believe I thought I could fix this. Fucking Sharpy and his fucking ideas—”

“Sharpy?” Jonny frowns. “What did Sharpy say?”

“Just some bullshit about how I could ‘change the dynamic’ between us or whatever,” Patrick says. He runs his hands through his curls. “Look, I’m just gonna go out for a while—”

Jonny’s heart is suddenly beating too fast. “Sharpy told you to say nice things about me.”

“Yeah, for whatever good that did me,” Patrick says with a snort, pulling his shoes on.

Jonny feels distant. Dislocated from his body. “So that’s—what that was. All the, all the compliments.”

“I mean, yeah?”

Jonny should leave. He wonders if he can, like, book a different room of the hotel. Or go home a night early, hide in his room, pretend none of this ever happened—

“Jonny.” Patrick’s coming closer. “What the fuck, man?”

“What? I’m fine.”

“You’re obviously not fine. Are you freaking out right now? You are.”

“No, I’m not,” Jonny says. His voice sounds weird in his ears. “I’m fine, you can go.”

“Sorry for—I don’t know, what are you upset about right now? Sorry I said nice things about you, I guess. I take it back, you don’t have a nice shot, I lied.”

Jonny flinches back. “Just get the fuck out.”

Patrick doesn’t get out. He stands there, looking at Jonny, eyes narrowed.

Jonny’s not sure how much longer he can keep it together. “Just—” He scrubs his hands over his thighs. “Look, I’m fine. Will you please leave?”

“Jonny.” Patrick comes closer. Puts his hand on Jonny’s shoulder. “I think you’re a really fucking good hockey player.”

Jonny’s never been madder in his life. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

“What, do you think I don’t mean it?” Patrick moves with him when he pulls back. “It’s not even a matter of opinion, man. You’re, like, objectively one of the best on the team. The way you command a situation on the ice, your two-way play—there aren’t a lot of rookies who can do that like you can. If you don’t get nominated for the Calder, it’ll be a fucking travesty.”

Jonny doesn’t say anything. He’s breathing hard.

Patrick’s studying his face. “You like it when I say nice things about you.”

“It’s—whatever.” Jonny scowls down at the bed.

“No, you—huh.” Patrick sits down on the edge of the bed next to him, facing him. “You have a killer slapshot. Better than mine, probably.”

Jonny clears his throat. “Yours is—”

“No, sh.” Patrick puts a hand in the middle of his chest, and Jonny falls silent, tongue going thick in his mouth. “You’re so strong on the ice. I’m fast, but you’ve got the speed plus the power, and you can seriously handle the puck. Did I ever tell you how much I hated you for your shootout skills at World Juniors?”

“I—don’t think so.” Jonny’s voice cracks.

“I was obsessed with that shot, man. Watched the tape of it so many times.” Patrick shakes his head. “The way you zeroed in on the goal, like it was the only thing in the world, like no goalie could possibly stand in your way—and you were _right._ I saw it, and I hated it so much. But later, rewatching it, knowing I was gonna be on your team—fuck. It gave me chills.”

Jonny’s panting for breath. It’s just words; it shouldn’t matter. But he feels like his face is going to catch fire. “I…yeah,” he says nonsensically.

“I was so psyched about you after prospect camp,” Patrick goes on. “You can ask my sisters. They kept telling me to shut up about you because I couldn’t stop talking about how good it was gonna be to play together. And, like, I didn’t even know yet. You raise up everyone on the ice, me, the team, everyone. That’s how good you are. Playing with you is—it’s even better than I expected. Better than I could have imagined.”

Jonny makes a broken noise. He has his eyes closed, because he can’t take looking at Patrick while he’s saying—all of this, any of this, these things that are fizzing beneath his breastbone and filling his head.

“Holy fuck,” Patrick whispers. “You really—”

He raises a hand to the side of Jonny’s face. Jonny pushes into it, desperately, wanting to hide and be seen at the same time.

“Please don’t punch me if I’m reading this wrong,” Patrick says, and the next moment his breath is hot on Jonny’s mouth.

Jonny opens to it with a cry. The next moment Patrick is pushing him back onto the pillows, tongue in Jonny’s mouth, his body a hot weight along Jonny’s front. Jonny feels scored open, all his layers peeled back. All of him bare and hungry and open for Patrick’s touch.

Patrick gives it to him. His hands are sliding up under Jonny’s shirt, his hips heavy on Jonny’s, and Jonny—Jonny is lost. His cock is a hot insistent pulse, bucking up against Patrick, and Patrick is there to meet him. Patrick murmurs into his mouth and grinds down and sets off sparklers beneath Jonny’s skin.

It’s not slow. They’re both too frantic for that. They do manage to get most of their clothes off, their pants far enough down that their cocks can rub up against each other, slick with the precome they’re leaking. It’s all Jonny can do not to come immediately.

“Did I ever mention,” Patrick whispers, grinding his huge cock against Jonny’s and making Jonny’s eyes cross, “that I keep getting myself off to you?”

Jonny arches up with a cry and comes, a long burst of heat that makes him shake and gasp against Patrick. He can’t think—there’s just an image in his head, Patrick in the shower every night with his cock out, huge and hard in his hand, getting off to _Jonny_ —

When he manages to open his eyes again, the image is rea: Patrick’s face is screwed up, and his cock is thrusting through his fist, spurting onto Jonny’s chest. The heat of it slams into Jonny, and he can only watch with his mouth open while Patrick comes all over him.

Patrick collapses against Jonny’s side when he’s done, kissing him wetly and dragging his fingers through the sticky mess he left on Jonny’s chest. It’s maybe objectively gross, but Jonny doesn’t care. He feels—really good. Really shockingly good. He just—with Patrick, who’s never right about anything, who’s been a thorn in Jonny’s side for weeks—they just—and it was _so good._

“Uh, so,” he says, when they’ve caught their breath a little and the kissing has slowed down. “That was…”

“Really fucking amazing,” Patrick murmurs. “God, you’re hot.”

Jonny makes a noise. He can’t help it. He’s totally fucked out, his cock lying limp on his leg, but that still makes him twitch with pleasure.

“Fuck. That really gets to you, doesn’t it?” Patrick says.

“What? No.”

“Jonny,” Patrick says with a put-upon sigh, as if Jonny’s the one who tries his patience and not the other way around. “If you admit you like it, I might do it more.”

Jonny feels his face heat. “Yeah, well.”

Patrick rubs Jonny’s nipple contemplatively. Jonny stifles a noise. “So, like two minutes of hockey compliments and you gave it up that good,” Patrick says. “You think that’ll work every time?”

God. Jonny is not prepared for this. “You can’t, like—I don’t want you to just say shit,” he says. “Not if you don’t—like. You have to mean it.”

“Duh,” Patrick says, rolling his eyes. “Don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll be able to find enough to criticize that you’ll be able to tell the difference.”

“Well. Okay, then.”

Patrick laughs. Kisses him. Jonny kisses him back, and lets the heat build in his belly again.

“So,” Patrick whispers, “want to hear me tell you how much I like your O-face?”

Jonny’s hips jerk up. Yeah, this is going to work out just fine.


End file.
